Vladimir and Estragon
The day is bathed in the uneasy light
of irreverence. It's like this each day—
the day dressing in a form
it's been given; or, rather,
falling into it without thought,
as if it were a calling. I want
to call upon a bird
to fill in the empty spaces.
I want this to be about wingspan
and instinct, about how a bird finds
shelter in the green leaves of a lilac bush.
How it waits. Have you ever noticed
how things wait; how
a cat skulks at the perimeter,
moving nothing? Even when no leaf
lifts, he waits. An experiment,
that began years ago, observes
coal tar pitch fall, one drop
at a time, once every decade.
The cat waits, the day buttons
itself into whatever cloak
it's handed, the bird holds
its breath in the thicket. Coal tar pitch
gathers into a tear and waits.
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